The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance) (3 page)

Her smile died on her face as she reached the edge of the woods and gazed out toward the castle. This time at least there were no signs of occupation apart from a sleek convertible parked just past the outbuildings. Livingstone had taken a detour to the lake, splashing in the mud at the water’s edge until he was wet and muddy. Then he turned and bounded playfully up the grassy slope toward the car and
, in a surprisingly athletic move for a large dog, he leapt directly onto the smooth leather of the back seat with a loud ripping sound.

He gazed over toward
Fiona, tongue lolling happily, as if waiting to be taken for a drive. Fiona stared, aghast, before leaving the cover of the trees to dash over to the open vehicle, already peeling off her sweater to try to mop up the muddy footprints. Her heart sank at the deep tears and scratches on the soft leather, very evidently the work of a large canine’s claws.

But as she approached, she became aware of voices coming from behind the nearest outbuilding and her courage froze. Having failed to do the right thing
during the wedding party, it would be twice as awkward now to be caught red-handed during her second trespass. She was no doubt sliding down the infamous slippery slope of poor reasoning, which suggested that the first minor misdemeanour would inevitably lead to more heinous crimes. There was something hard to break in the cycle that seemed to have started.

She ignored t
his doubtful stream of rationale as she grabbed Livingstone’s collar and pulled his reluctant and heavy form across the seat to try to hoist him over the side door. He showed no inclination to leave his prize location and she had to open the door and yank him out unceremoniously, leaving the door open rather than risk the noise of shutting it again. As she sprinted back to the safety of the woods, Livingstone evidently enjoying this new game, she had only time to note that the voices spoke with posh English accents, no hint of Scots.

She was scandalised to find her conscience somewhat
mollified by the idea that her mongrel dog was at least annoying the invasive English aristocracy. Again, this was no time to start questioning her subconscious for nationalistic tendencies or to try to make this misbehaviour seem more like Robin Hood. As it was, she barely had time to reach the cover of the forest before the sources of the voices appeared, strolling out from behind the buildings toward the castle.

She couldn’t resist the urge to see what happened next, confident that Livingstone was heading for home without her. From her hiding spot she watched as two handsome men made their way languidly across the gravel, conversing in an off-hand way.
One looked dark and mysterious, while the other she recognised as the best man at the wedding, with his slightly-curling brown hair, handsome face and a pair of expressive blue eyes which she had been too far away to see last time.

Their relaxed demeanour changed abruptly when the dark-haired man caught sight of the convertible. His angry and upset words were muffled but their meaning was clear as he broke into a run toward the car. The best man hurried after him, looking mystified and then disbelieving and finally irate. His gaze followed the muddy footprints and the imprints in the gravel toward the lawn and straight on into the woods.
Fiona froze on the spot, her heart hammering, convinced that he would spot her. But his companion grabbed his arm to point to something on the seat, probably scratch marks, and she took the opportunity to slip deeper into the trees and back to the Dog House.

The end of the day found
Fiona perched on a barstool in the Glen Murray Inn, which had been her favourite pub even when her work had kept her in Braeport. She used to seek refuge in the Braeport Arms, but when the barmaid, Sarah, switched to Glen Murray, so did Fiona. It was a happy coincidence that the Inn was now only a few kilometres down the road from her new home.

It was a cosy pub, with a long wooden bar, well-stocked with ales and whiskeys, with a row of comfortable stools pulled up against it. There were also wooden tables and booths near the windows, and a hearth for colder weather. Paintings of the highlands decorated the walls and a tartan-style carpet
softened the lounge around the fireplace. Fiona eyed the comfortable corner to imagine doing her writing there, but knew that it was a bad idea. She and Sarah had become good friends over the course of her work at
Mackenzie
House and her work would suffer from their long conversations.

“I thought you were going to boycott the pub and focus on your work,” Sarah said reproachfully, although she looked pleased to see her friend. “You haven’t lasted a week.”

“Extraordinary circumstances,” Fiona said darkly, reaching for her pint. “My writer’s retreat isn’t quite as distraction-free as I’d hoped.”

“Love interest?” Sarah asked eagerly, her interest perking up immediately.

“Only of the four-legged variety,” Fiona assured her. “But I’m starting to think that dogs are more trouble than men.”

“Getting tired of walking him already?” the barmaid asked sympathetically. “I thought you loved to walk.”

“Walking him is fine,” Fiona said with a grim smile. “It’s chasing after him on forbidden ground that I’m getting tired of.”

Sarah’s eyes opened wide. “He’s not straying onto the castle grounds, is he?” she asked, sounding worried.

Fiona eyed her friend warily. “Would that really be so bad?” she asked, wincing.

She watched as Sarah struggled to sound less dire about the situation. “Not if he doesn’t get caught,” she tried with a dry laugh.

Fiona took another sip of her ale and sighed. Apart from her plan to save money and time, it had also been her hope to lose a few pounds by drinking less beer this year. But her plan wasn’t off to the best start. She wriggled her toes against Livingstone’s drowsy body which flopped contentedly at her feet.

Sarah was regarding her with empathy. “He hasn’t been caught yet but you think he will,” she supplied helpfully. “Is he chasing rabbits?”

“Squirrels,” Fiona said vehemently. “Right over the back garden wall. But then he seems drawn to the castle like a magnet, even though it’s across a thick stretch of wood that must be full of dozens of squirrels that should divert him.”

“Then you’re lucky he hasn’t been seen,” the barmaid said firmly. “The Parkers are famous for not wanting their privacy disturbed. They live in a sort of a bubble, cut off from the real world.”

“Livingstone barged in on their wedding,”
Fiona announced glumly. “Knocked over the table with the champagne and nearly took out the wedding cake.”

Sarah’s eyes grew as large as saucers before she let out an awed giggle. “Wow,” she said in genuine admiration. “That’s a bit of a reminder
for them that there is a world beyond their walls. But you must be talking about the Harrington-Smythe wedding last week. Colin’s a confirmed bachelor.”

“He’s one of the
Parkers, then, is he?” Fiona asked, trying to rethink her picture of her neighbours.

“He’s the son,” Fiona confirmed. “The elder Parkers spend most of their time in the south. Colin spends a lot of his time here, hosting half of upper-class England to weeks in the Highlands. And the occasional well-heeled Scot, for good measure.”

“Is he sort of good-looking with blue eyes?”
Fiona asked cautiously.

“Sort of?”
Sarah repeated incredulously. “He’s one of the hottest catches north of the border. Well, not a catch unless you’ve got blue blood yourself, but dreams are free, aren’t they?”

“Sounds like a bit of a snob,”
Fiona said dismissively.

“Oh, but he’s a real charmer,” Sarah defended him.
“Loads of fun to be with, friendly as can be, if you’re in his circle, and always positive. I guess it isn’t that hard when you’re that comfortable.”

“And how do you know all this if he doesn’t mix and mingle with the likes of us?”
Fiona demanded. “Is this all coming from
Hello
magazine?”

Sarah laughed. “You can keep from mixing with the commoners, but they’re the ones who clean your sheets, deliver your food and take care of your horses,” she pointed out with a grin. “My auntie used to take care of Colin in the summers when he was a boy, and one of my mates caters for a lot of the
Parker parties. Basically I know everybody who works in the golf clubs and posh restaurants where these people go. It isn’t so different from the Middle Ages, you know; half of the region is employed indirectly by a handful of rich families.”

Fiona
was unconvinced. “Still sounds like a bit of a pompous jerk,” she said irritably. “Keeping himself away from the commoners.”

“That’s because you haven’t had those famous blue eyes sparkle just for you,” Sarah said with a deep sigh.

“Nor have you, I take it,” Fiona said with a roll of her eyes.

“Of course not,” Sarah replied, returning to her usual business-like manner as she polished the long wooden bar. “Although it has occurred, on a few rare occasions, that he stops in with a group of visitors for a final drink in the pub on his way back from some outing or another. So at least I can confirm about his looks.”

“Looks are all well and good,” Fiona said crossly, “but what really shows what kind of a man you are is how you deal with your neighbours. Say a neighbour with a dog who scratched your guest’s car.”

This time Sarah’s jaw dropped open. “He’ll shoot you,” she offered shortly.
“Or worse. He runs perfect parties and can’t have them getting spoilt by the likes of you or me. Did Livingstone really do that?”

Fiona
nodded glumly. “This afternoon. And they saw him. I’m guessing it won’t take too long to trace him back to me. They have to drive close to the cottage each time they come and go. I’m sort of surprised they haven’t tracked me down already.”

Sarah seemed to be considering her as she poured another pint. “This one’s on the house,” she offered. “Consider it therapy. But it’s a good sign if they haven’t contacted you. I think Colin just wants to avoid dealing with any of us.
Sort of a live and let-live approach.”

“I sure hope so,”
Fiona breathed. “I think the leather in that car cost more than my year’s research grant.” She bent down to pat Livingstone’s head absently.

“I could always use a hand here behind the bar,” Sarah said with a flash of a smile, still seeming slightly awed by her friend’s contact with the aloof
Parker’s, no matter how accidental. “Keep that in mind if the dog gets up to any more shenanigans.”

Fiona
looked at her dolefully. “If the dog gets into any more trouble, I may have to leave the country.”

Her friend didn’t disagree
, but she tactfully tried to change the subject. “So, are you nervous about speaking at the Mackenzie House opening? They’re billing you as some sort of eminent historian.”

Fiona
laughed out loud. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to stay vague about details.”

“Aren’t you scared? All sorts of members of the Historical and Cultural Society will be there, not to mention anybody who’s any sort of patron of the arts around here. It’s quite an event for the
Braeport area.”

“I don’t mind speaking about my subject,”
Fiona said with a toss of her head. “I had to give enough seminars and conference papers at uni to be comfortable now speaking to groups. It’s the chit-chatting afterwards that makes me feel awkward. Like you said, prominent members of the History Society and the upper class. Not really my scene.”

“Oh, that would be the fun part for me,” Sarah smiled. “Not that I’d know what to wear or to say.
I think I’d just stand in a corner and watch everybody else. But it will be interesting and one little part of local history. Braeport is opening a new cultural attraction and you are part of it. You should be proud.”

Fiona
drained her pint and put it down. “Well, I hope it helps to preserve the local culture and doesn’t become another tourist trap. If I can keep the pride in history alive, then I’m doing what I hope. If I’m responsible for another kitsch souvenir shop selling golf balls with pictures of Mackenzie House, I’ll have to rethink it all.”

Sarah giggled. “You’ll probably do both in the end,” she admitted. “My aunt is already hoping to sell her shortbread and flapjacks there if they open a café. And all the souvenir stuff helps to pay for it. I don’t think entry fees alone will ever be enough.”

“You’re right, of course,” Fiona admitted. “Now I’m the one being a snob. Too long in academics, wanting just the pure history side of things. But they said if the opening goes well and if there’s enough interest, they might ask me to lead a historical walk or two as a fundraiser for the centre. That wouldn’t be such a bad deal for me, either.”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with such a famous historian,” Sarah said fondly.
“Me who never even got my O levels. Maybe hanging out with you I’ll learn a thing or two.”

“Not about useful things like neighbourly relations,”
Fiona reminded her, coming back to her current concern. “Or how to control a dog.”

“I think I’d better
treat you to another drink,” the barmaid decided. “I have to have something that I can offer you, after all, and you sound like you need it.”